The Rejected Plus-Size Mate

The fine lace snagged on my calloused finger, a delicate white flower ruined. 

“Careful, Elara,” my mother’s voice cut through the hum of conversation in the Morgan’s parlor. 

“That’s for Isabella’s fitting. You know how important tomorrow is.”

I nodded, feeling the familiar burn in my cheeks. 

“I know, Mother.” I held up the damaged lace, a silent apology. 

“I think I can mend this.” My gaze drifted to the row of gowns hanging like silent judges, each waiting for a fitting. 

Tomorrow, Prince Nathan would choose his mate. The entire pack vibrated with anticipation. Not for me, of course. For the pretty ones. The strong ones. The ones who looked like the Luna he deserved. Yet, a tiny, foolish part of me still ached. The mate bond, a whisper in my soul, thrummed whenever his name was spoken.

“Honestly, Elara,” she continued, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “try not to eat too much tonight. The royal family will be here. We don’t need you embarrassing us in front of the Prince Regent and Queen Mother. Remember last year at the Harvest Feast? The way you demolished those pastries…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy in the air.

A sharp intake of breath from one of our aunts punctuated her words. I felt myself shrink, my shoulders hunching. It was always about my size, my plain face, my complete lack of…delicacy.

Then, a collective gasp. All heads swiveled to the grand staircase. Isabella descended, a vision in a gown of shimmering silver silk, designed to make her look ethereal, almost moonlight. It showcased her slender waist and the graceful curve of her neck. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves that framed her perfect, aristocratic features.

“Stunning, Isabella, truly stunning,” another relative chimed in, rushing forward to adjust a fold.

“Prince Nathan won’t be able to resist.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked, but her tone was a mere formality. She knew. We all knew.

“Of course!” Aunt Lyra squeezed her arm affectionately. 

“A Morgan will be Luna! And I certainly don’t mean someone like Elara, bless her heart. No offense, dear,” she added, glancing at me with a pitying, saccharine smile. 

“But a prince needs someone…regal.”

The words, though delivered with a supposed kindness, hit like a physical blow. No offense, dear. It was the mantra of my life. No offense, dear, but you’re too loud. No offense, dear, but you’re too big. No offense, dear, but you’re not what anyone wants.

I forced a tight, artificial smile to my lips. My jaw ached with the effort. My eyes burned. It was the same old song, the one I’d heard since I was old enough to understand words: I was not enough. I never would be.

I watched them fuss over Isabella, an invisible barrier separating me from their joyous circle. When finally, they moved to the formal dining room for afternoon tea, leaving me alone with the damaged lace and the silent dresses, I let the fake smile drop. My heart felt like a shriveled thing in my chest.

My mind drifted, escaping the confines of the present. I remembered him. Prince Nathan. It had been years ago, after the battle against the northern rogues. He’d returned, victorious and bloodied, his golden fur streaked with crimson. The pack had cheered, adored him. I, small and insignificant, had been tasked with carrying water to the wounded.

He’d sat on a makeshift stretcher, his chest bare, a deep claw mark marring his shoulder. I’d approached cautiously, my heart thumping. Everyone else had ignored me, or worse, scoffed at my clumsy gait.

But he hadn’t.

He’d looked up, his eyes a startling, fierce gold. 

“Thank you,” he’d said, his voice a low rumble. He’d taken the waterskin, his strong fingers brushing mine.

“This means more than you know.”

Just two words. Thank you. Not a comment on my weight, not a dismissive glance. Just genuine gratitude. In that moment, he was not a prince, and I was not the clumsy, unwanted Elara. We were just two wolves, one grateful, one helpful. And in that moment, a foolish, impossible dream had been born in my heart.

A sharp, authoritative rapping echoed from the front door, rattling the crystal goblets in the display cabinet. The entire house went silent.

My mother, Isabella, and our relatives, who had been chatting animatedly, froze in mid-sentence. My mother’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her throat. Isabella straightened, a flicker of nervous excitement in her eyes. Everyone knew the royal family chose mates discreetly, but a visit from royal guards before the official ceremony was unheard of unless… unless it was a special summons.

“Open the door, Thomas!” my mother hissed at the elderly butler, her voice barely a whisper.

“Quickly!”

Thomas, his face pale, hurried to the door. Two imposing figures stood on our porch, their uniforms impeccable, the Goldstone crest emblazoned proudly on their chests. They were tall, heavily muscled, clearly elite guards. One, a burly Alpha with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. His gaze swept the elegant parlor, bypassing the fawning relatives, bypassing my stunning sister.

And then, his gaze landed on me.

My breath hitched. No, he couldn’t be looking at me.

He took a step towards me, the sound of his boots echoing in the sudden, profound silence of the room. My mother and Isabella exchanged a confused, almost indignant glance.

The Alpha guard stopped directly in front of me. To my horror, he dipped into a formal, respectful bow.

“Elara Morgan,” he stated, his voice deep and resonant. 

“The future Alpha requests your presence at the palace tomorrow morning, at sunrise.”

My mind blanked. What?

He continued, his gaze unwavering, as if he spoke to the most important person in the room.

“Your mating ceremony preparations will begin immediately upon your arrival. We are here to escort you tonight, if you are amenable.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. The collective gasp that followed was almost comical.

Isabella’s perfect, triumphant smile slowly, agonizingly, disappeared. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes, usually so bright with self-assurance, were wide and disbelieving.

My mother stared at me. Her mouth was a tight, thin line. It was as if she had never truly seen me before, as if I were a stranger who had suddenly appeared in her parlor. Her face was a mask of utter bewilderment, then a dawning horror.

Was I dreaming? This had to be a dream. The thank-you from Nathan, all those years ago, had created this impossible fantasy. But the guard was still standing there, his expression solemn, unwavering.

A soft, scratching sound broke the silence. I looked down. Isabella’s hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Her knuckles were white. Her lovely silver gown seemed to shimmer with her suppressed fury. She looked like she wanted to scream. She looked like she wanted to kill me.